


Darkness And Light

by elennalore



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Good Parent Fëanor, Lucid Dreaming, Valinor, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27492412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elennalore/pseuds/elennalore
Summary: The concept of darkness is completely foreign to Fëanor - so why does he keep dreaming of it?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	Darkness And Light

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written as a gift for the followers of my Silmarillion-themed Tumblr blog. It was first posted on Tumblr.
> 
> I, the author, agree for my fic to be read during a SWG live reading session.

Fëanáro keeps dreaming of the darkness.

It’s weird because he has never seen the real darkness with his own eyes. Tirion is bathed in the light of the Trees, waxing and waning, but never really going dark. His father has of course told him stories about the eternal night in Middle-earth. Oh, how he loved those stories as a child! He tried to imagine stars twinkling in the sky like silvery gems, but it was hard.

In Tirion, windowless cellars and underground rooms are the only places where the darkness abides. Even there, the abundance of crystal lamps helps keeping the darkness at bay. It’s obvious that the elves of Valinor don’t like the darkness. It has a history of fear and uncertainty they don’t want to remember.

So why does he keep dreaming of the world gone dark? Irmo claims he knows nothing about it, but Fëanturi are not to be trusted.

Something must be done. So he learns the technique of lucid dreaming.

Soon, he is able to move in Irmo’s kingdom as easily as in his own. He can sense different shapes in the darkness, albeit his sight is mostly taken away from him. He can feel a path under his feet, and he decides to follow it. He arrives to a new place. The echoes of his steps tell him that he must be inside a large room with stone walls. He is sure he can hear distant wailing somewhere, but it stops when he tries to listen its source.

He wants to explore the room further, and for that he needs light.

Next time, he takes light with him. When he goes to bed that night, he wears his Silmarils. It seems to amuse Nerdanel a lot, but he doesn’t want to explain a theory before it is properly tested. Let her think of it as one of her husband’s little quirks.

His theory works. When he opens his eyes in lucid dream this time, the familiar darkness is now illuminated by the light of the Silmarils he wears on his breast. Their light doesn’t reach far here, though, and the darkness surrounding him feels now even more impenetrable. But he has now light with him.

He goes back to the room with stone walls. There are dead flowers lining the path. A sad sight, but inevitable in a darkness of this kind. Everyone knows the flowers can’t survive without light.

Not even the light of the Silmarils can reach all the corners of the large stone room. The darkness feels like a physical border. Fëanáro thinks he hears wailing again in one of the dark corners. He goes to study the source.

A dark shape in the uttermost corner, surrounded by gentle shimmer. Someone sleeping there? Fëanáro approaches the dreamer in a dream world. The dreamer stirs and his eyelids flutter as the light of the Silmarils streams on his face.

Fëanáro is staring at his firstborn son. Only he looks older now, and thinner and paler.

“Russandol?” he whispers, and the sleeper awakes with a start. Russandol turns his face away and covers his eyes with his hands as if dazzled by the light.

“Russandol, it’s me. _Atya_ here.”

“No. Go away.” The boy is frightened as if awoken from a nightmare.

“Nelyo, dear, this is only a dream.” A dream that is getting curiouser and curiouser.

“You’re not my father! Go away!”

And with those words of denial, Fëanáro is being pushed out of that stone room, even pushed out of his own dream. He wakes up in a cold sweat. Nerdanel is breathing steadily beside him.

He tiptoes to his eldest son’s room, just to check that everything is all right.

His son is sleeping like the older Russandol in his dream, but his face is softer and he looks more relaxed now.

“Russandol?” Fëanáro whispers like he did in the dream.

And just like in the dream, his son stirs. He’s blinking in the light of the Silmarils Fëanáro has forgotten he is still wearing. But he doesn’t turn away this time.

“ _Atya_ ,” he mutters, still half asleep. “Is that you?”

“Yes, dear Nelyo, it’s me.”

Russandol’s eyes are wide. “Oh, the light! I remember now. I had a strangest dream. There was darkness, and light, and nothing between. And I was afraid of both.”

Fëanáro reaches out to stroke his son’s coppery hair. “It was only a dream. It’s gone now.”

“Please, don’t leave me, _atya_. In that dream, I couldn’t find you.”

“I was there. I was there all the time.” But Russandol doesn’t understand. So Fëanáro sits patiently beside his son until Nelyo falls asleep again. He’s so young, and the world is not so innocent he thinks it is. How can he protect him?

“I won’t leave you, son.” It’s a bold promise to make. How can he keep it? He doesn’t know. The peace doesn’t last forever. He can only try his best.

He prays that it will be enough.


End file.
